Murder At The Music Hall: (Auguste Didier Mystery 8) (26 page)

‘Or maybe the will was the reason someone was anxious to get him there in the first place. My word,’ Egbert’s attention was suddenly diverted, ‘you’ve got a good cook here.’ He plunged further into the apple charlotte.

Auguste gulped, refraining from comment with great effort. ‘We do not yet know who.’

‘I wonder what old Jowitt’s doing this afternoon?’ Egbert said resignedly.

Old Jowitt had put on his carpet slippers, determined to ignore the bright sunshine of the Sunday afternoon, when the rest of the East End of London was disporting itself, children in sailor suits, husbands and wives in Sunday best, strolling round Victoria Park. He favoured the newspaper, a bottle of whisky, and a pipe. A stuffed parrot glared at such indulgence from under his glass jar, the dark-coloured curtains were eagerly awaiting the moment when they could be drawn, a small fire burned in the grate. A plate of crumpets, butter and toasting fork lay on the hearth. Percy was a remarkably happy man. The bailiffs seemed to have vanished, he had had fifty pounds bequeathed to him and he had found friends in high places: Scotland Yard, Magnificent Mashers, Nettie Turners – all had the good of Percy Jowitt at heart. None of them would let poor Percy starve. He was, nevertheless, painfully aware that next week’s programme did not display the same élan and
flair of the performers of the week before. Percy believed in looking on the bright side, however, and the bright side told him that there was unlikely to be another murder to upset the proceedings, even if the programme did include Little Emmeline and Evangeline, and now lacked Nettie, Horace, Will Lamb and the Magnificent Masher. It suddenly occurred to him that now Thomas was a rich man, he too might desert the ship, but he comforted himself that Thomas would never do such a thing, for he was far too loyal. Even if he did, there would be compensations: at least he would take Evangeline with him.

The unexpected knock on the door disturbed his afternoon. He remembered with annoyance that he’d given the girl the afternoon off and that meant he’d have to open it himself. He was not pleased. He was even less pleased when the reality intruded in the form of his ex-bailiff and his cook. It took some moments for him to recall that they were in fact something to do with the police.

‘Cosy little den you have here,’ Rose remarked as Percy grumpily led the way into his living-room. The parlour hadn’t been opened since Maud died twenty years earlier.

Gratified, Percy cheered up. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He shifted a pile of newspapers on to the floor to free a second chair and looked round helplessly for a third. If cooks ever sat. Did they sit? He had a vague idea that they stood all the time, waiting for orders. Still it was Sunday, and Percy was an obliging man. He spotted a piano stool submerged under the summer curtains which had been taken down by the girl last month and left there,
presumably for spring. He tipped the pile on to the floor and dragged it forward.

‘Cast your mind back, Mr Jowitt.’

Percy tried to look helpful. ‘To when?’

‘To when you decided to ask Miss Turner and Will Lamb down here. Which of them was your first choice, for example?’

Percy looked scared. ‘I really cannot recall.’

‘Try again.’

Percy cast wildly around in his memory. ‘Do you know,’ he cried, well pleased, ‘I do believe it was Will. What do you think of that?’ Well satisfied, Percy placed his hands on the paunch that might have been there if he ever remembered to feed it properly.

‘And it was
your
idea? That right?’

‘Naturally.’ An air of hauteur replaced satisfaction.

‘Even though he’s been murdered?’

Percy grasped the point. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t entirely mine. I believe someone or other mentioned the name which gave me the idea.’

‘Try to remember exactly.’

‘During our little celebration.’

‘For what?’

‘I found it was forty years since the Old King Cole music hall opened. Magnificent day. So I said why don’t we all have one of Mrs Jolly’s pies – no disparagement to Mr Beezer our then cook, naturally – and a bowl of punch. The punch was extraordinarily good. Mr Brodie got quite carried away, indeed we all became a little tipsy.’

Rose’s eye went to the whisky bottle, but he said nothing.

‘Yes, I do remember,’ Percy continued. ‘It all began as a joke.’

‘What you need is Marie Lloyd and Dan Leno, Percy,’ Horace Brodie roared.

‘Percy couldn’t afford to pay Leno for a half a minute,’ Pickles jeered.

‘The Great Chirgwin?’ twittered Dolly.

‘Not while Fm here,’ Horace roared again, smacking her bottom affectionately.

‘Hope that won’t be long,’ Pickles shouted.

‘You’re right. I’m off to Gay Paree, fellows.’

‘And I know who’s coming with you,’ trilled Dolly dancing on the table, not taking him seriously.

‘Don’t wait up, don’t wait up for me, Dolly,’ Horace hiccuped, entirely seriously. ‘Who are you going to replace me with, Percy?’

‘I’d like to meet Dan Leno,’ sighed Mariella.

‘I’m sure you would. You like short men, don’t you?’ her husband informed her.

‘Like Will Lamb?’ Pickles giggled. ‘What about Marie Lloyd or Nettie? I notice you don’t want to meet them again.’

‘Dear old Will,’ Thomas Yapp tossed back his second glass of punch, surprised it had such a delightful kick in it. Percy wasn’t usually that generous. ‘Why don’t you invite him?’

‘Dear old Will,’ chorused Pickles. ‘Yes, let’s have him down, Percy. Invite Nettie too, and Will can cheer up the box office, and
all
our bloomin’ wives, Nettie, Mariella, and even Evangeline here.’

Evangeline attempted to draw herself up with dignity. ‘Do not,’ she said with dignity, ‘speak like that of the man I love.’

Thomas’s hands tightened on his glass, as Percy looked
blearily around. ‘I’ve had a good idea,’ Percy told them importantly. ‘It’s just come to me. I’ll give Will Lamb a week’s booking.’

‘It was most odd. Suddenly everyone was talking about Nettie and Will. So the idea came to me – I think.’

‘Who
was talking most?’

‘Pickles, I believe, Thomas, perhaps others.’ He looked appealingly at Rose. ‘Somehow, though as you know I’m not a fanciful man,’ he admitted humbly, ‘I felt my regulars were very, very eager that Nettie and Will should come. An artiste like me is sensitive to atmosphere.’

The atmosphere here was getting overpowering, and Auguste was glad when Egbert got up to go.

‘Ah well.’ Percy brightened. ‘Pity there are not enough crumpets for three.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘Mr Er – er, I must tell you, I’m not impressed. You should improve your herrings. I had a complaint only the other day – only one, it is true—’ he added hastily as he saw the thunderclouds gather on Auguste’s face.

‘You’ll have to find yourself a new cook,’ Rose told him, quickly averting trouble. ‘I’m going to need Mr Didier’s help.’

‘He’s a bailiff as well as a cook?’ Percy asked, muddled.

‘I’m a
detective.’
Rose was irritated. ‘You’ve had a murder here, remember?’

‘I remember,’ Percy agreed gloomily.

Egbert cast a look at the crumpets and took his revenge. ‘And I’ll ask you, Jowitt, to be so good as to accompany us to the theatre
now.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ Percy asked plaintively.

‘It is.’

‘But I have to find a new cook.’

‘Appoint Miss Lizzie,’ Auguste told him firmly. ‘She is untrained save by experience, but she has the right instincts.’

‘Who’s Lizzie?’ her employer wailed.

‘The young lady who assisted me last week.’

‘You mean the girl?’ Percy looked puzzled. ‘Can she cook herrings?’

‘Much better than I.’ Self-sacrifice was well worth it in the interests of Lizzie’s career.

The Old King Cole on a Sunday smelled of stale air, of stale food and greasepaint, of human sweat on costumes from which their owners had temporarily departed.

‘What do you want to see?’ Percy asked complainingly, lumbering through the stage door.

‘This.’ Egbert flung open the door of the props room adjoining Will’s dressing-room. ‘You two go next door and have a chat, will you?’

Auguste shivered as he went into the still untouched room, with Percy reluctantly following. The Old King Cole seemed infected by evil, not just by the stillness of a Sunday. It was more even than that a death had taken place. It was as if there were undercurrents here that divided each of these performers in suspicion and hate.

‘She can’t manage,’ Percy pronounced loudly.

‘Who?’

‘The girl.’

‘Get Miss Lizzie an assistant.’

‘Pay
someone you mean?’ Percy asked, horrified.

‘Mr Jowitt, if you pay good wages your trade will improve.’

Percy thought this over. ‘My niece’s husband has just lost his job as a coalman, he could do it.’

‘Coalmen are not cooks.
I
will arrange it.’ He would begin by asking Mrs Jolly if she knew of someone suitable.

Jolly – what odd names people had in this country. In China he had heard people had names like Night-of-the-Shining Moon. Perhaps he could institute such a system here. Auguste of the
Cailles Farcies.
Monsieur Auguste Eel Pie—

‘Auguste,’ Egbert was shouting sharply. ‘Come here!’

When Egbert used that tone of voice, Auguste ran. He found him, not next door, but in the wings looking into the corner.

‘Look at that fish tank.’

Auguste did so.

Mariella’s fish tank contained more than its usual rocks and chute. It contained a human body. Eyes staring, black hair streaming, it was Miguel Gomez and he was dead.

Auguste felt cold and sick. Some hours later the oppressive evil of the Old King Cole had not yet lifted, although the body had now been taken away. It had turned out to be one of the most unpleasant afternoons of his life. He and Egbert had had to haul Gomez’s body with great difficulty out of the tank to establish what they both already knew – that he was dead. Washing in the inadequate facilities of the theatre, and drying themselves and their clothes in the trapped warmth of
the dark kitchens had resulted in even lower spirits. A police doctor, photographer, and fingerprint sergeant had busied themselves at their tasks. Stitch had been despatched to break the news to Gomez’s widow, and Percy abandoned hope of crumpets; they remained a far-off ideal only to be contemplated when the horrors that afflicted his beloved theatre had vanished.

‘Stunned and then drowned.’ Egbert came over to Auguste at last. ‘Dead a few hours when we found him.’

‘Not last night, after the performance?’

‘Possible, but unlikely. We’ll know more after the pathologist has had a look. His wife will tell us, anyway.’

‘Unless she—’ Auguste broke off.

‘Did it,’ Egbert finished for him. ‘Not the easiest of methods to murder your husband.’

‘And if it was because of the cross, why should she murder Gomez so soon after Will Lamb’s death and draw attention to herself?’

‘Mariella inherits under Lamb’s will so you wouldn’t think she’d want Lamb involved in the cross affair at all, for fear he’d change his mind over the will. He seems to have been an old-fashioned sort of chap, Will Lamb. He wouldn’t take kindly to robbing England to pay Portugal. So it must have been planted on him.’

‘Except that if the Gomezes did involve Lamb, he would provide some protection, would he not? Scotland Yard would hardly put
him
in the Tower, and that would shelter them too.’

‘Especially if Henry Irving ordered the fake.’ Egbert sighed. ‘This is a madhouse, Auguste.’

‘No,
mon ami.
A theatre, the home of illusion. There is a carefully planned script somewhere.’

That fish-tank murder didn’t come from a script. It looks like panic, to my mind.’

‘By a man. No woman could do it.’

‘Not alone, maybe. She’d need a helper.’

‘Someone strong,’ Auguste agreed slowly, memories of yesterday coming back to him. ‘Very strong.’

‘Not,’ Egbert said, following his thoughts, ‘necessarily. It could be a matter of balance, if the body were tipped over to fall by its own weight, head over heels.’

Auguste shuddered. The picture in his mind became even more vivid at the thought of such callousness.

‘We found this stuffed in that wooden house the dogs come through to slide down the chute.’ Egbert flourished an odd object, which Auguste identified after a moment as Mariella’s mermaid fish tail.

‘Ask the widow what it was doing there, Auguste. You can relieve Twitch. I’m going to get hold of Special Branch, and tell them their chum is dead.’

‘I think your presence is necessary too, Egbert,’ Auguste said quickly. ‘After all, you believe Mariella is implicated in the theft of the cross.’

‘This is about her husband’s death.’ Egbert eyed him curiously.

‘I think you should be present, or the Inspector remain.’